


Legacy Doesn't Mean Blood

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Star Trek Bingo 2020 [13]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: 5+1 Things, Adoption, Episode: s02e15 Pen Pals, Episode: s03e16 The Offspring, Episode: s05e11 Hero Worship, Episode: s07e16 Thine Own Self, F/M, Kid Fic, canon character death for lal but not for tasha, caring for children, data just wants to be a parent so bad, family is what you make it, feelings are complicated for data but hes working on it, i love the soong-yar kids so much, tasha is a good mom for lal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Five children Data looked after for a little while, and the ones he got to keep.
Relationships: Data/Tasha Yar
Series: Star Trek Bingo 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875274
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	Legacy Doesn't Mean Blood

**Author's Note:**

> For the bingo free space. I chose the prompt "kidfic." I really, really love Data with kids, okay? Let this good boy be a parent.

1)

“Can I join you?”

Data looked up, and then nodded, gesturing for Tasha to take the seat across from him. Ten Forward was mostly empty, the stars shooting past the broad windows, and Drema IV was barely a speck behind them, but Data found his thoughts still lingering with the planet and the people who inhabited it. Or, more specifically, just one of them.

“I get why you didn’t tell anyone,” Tasha murmured. Even soft, her voice still carried in the quiet space. Data met her gaze, and there was something guarded in her expression that he couldn’t quite parse out.

“Responding to Sarjenka was irresponsible of me as an officer,” he said. “If I had told you, you likely would have pointed out the security threat of communicating with an unknown species without diplomatic supervision. Captain Picard would likely have instructed me to sever contact immediately with a pre-warp civilization. I knew this, and chose to keep it secret anyway, in direct conflict with my duty as an officer.”

“Not in conflict,” Tasha corrected. A small, wry smile played at her lips. “Just…bending the rules a little. You didn’t tell her you were an alien from the stars, and her memories were erased. No harm done, right?”

“Correct.” Factually, it was true. They had saved Drema IV, most likely in violation of the Prime Directive, but they had done so covertly, without direct interference in the culture. Starfleet was unlikely to punish them for it. And the one person who might have remembered them…wouldn’t.

Picard had told him that understanding loss was key in understanding human friendships. That did not mean it was a pleasant sensation.

Tasha leaned back in her chair, scrutinizing him. She waved away the server who approached to take her order, tilting her head not unlike Data’s particular quirk. “You’re still bothered by it, though.”

Data opened his mouth, then hesitated. He looked at his hands, resting neatly on the table. He could recall with perfect clarity what Sarjenka’s unusually long, bright orange digits had felt like clinging to his hand, the comfort it had seemed to give the little girl. “She was…significant to me. Over the weeks we spoke, I developed…something of an affection for her. It was almost a…parental instinct.” He stared at his hands. “She will not recall me. I find the thought is…less appealing than it ought to be.”

“No one likes the thought that they won’t be missed.” Tasha glanced out the window, and Data raised his head to watch her gaze unfocus, like she was looking far beyond the stars they could see passing by. “No one likes the idea that, the people you leave behind…that they won’t care about you once you’ve gone, even if you think about them every day.”

Her voice was wistful, and Data suspected it wasn’t really addressed to him. He wondered who she was thinking of. Tasha spoke so little of Turkana, but she had always made it sound like there was no one left there for her. Maybe there was. Maybe Tasha was just afraid that she’d been forgotten.

She shook herself from her stupor, giving Data a small smile. “Still. You did a good thing, Data. You should think about that, next time someone tries to tell you that you can’t care about things. You heard a scared little girl, and your instinct was to talk to her. To make her feel less alone.”

“Children do seem to respond well to me,” Data allowed.

“Well, you’re sweet,” Tasha told him, a hint of a tease in her voice. “Nonthreatening. Who wouldn’t love that?”

Data glanced around the room reflexively. No one was paying them any mind. But then, it was an innocuous statement, layered only if one was ‘in the know.’ Carefully, he slid his foot forward a little, just enough to knock briefly against Tasha’s, letting her know he understood. He was still very new to this concept, the idea of a relationship, but the gesture must have been correct, because Tasha’s smile widened.

He tucked his legs back under him. “It is something I have considered at length.”

“What, that people like you?”

“Children,” he corrected mildly. It made her raise her eyebrows, and he assured her, his voice lowered discretely, “Not in that particular context. I am aware that it is extremely early to be discussing children at this juncture. However, I…” He paused, trying to find the best words to describe it. “Speaking with Sarjenka…made me acutely aware of something I have been considering since Counselor Troi had her child. Even with the unusual circumstances, being permitted to be part of that was a unique experience, and I am grateful to the counselor for allowing me to participate. I cannot say if it is part of my coding, or if it is akin to a natural instinct, but…I believe, someday, I would like to become a parent.”

“Really?”

He cocked his head. “Is that odd?”

“It’s…very human of you,” Tasha said. She fidgeted with her hands on the table. “Why? Why would you want kids?”

“I…do not really know,” Data admitted. It was part of what he had been puzzling the entire time he and Sarjenka had been speaking. It wasn’t that he had slipped into a parental role with her – she had a family, and he had been a confidant, a friend, but nothing more – and yet, he found himself considering. “I should not feel any need for a legacy, as many organic species regard their children, because I am designed to last effectively forever. But there is still…an appeal, to caring for a child. To ensuring they live a full, happy life. To watching them grow and change. I cannot explain it better than that.”

He wondered if it was the wrong thing to say when Tasha avoided his eyes. “Tasha?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, just…thinking.”

“Have I upset you?”

“No.” She took a breath, straightening up and lacing her fingers together tight on the table. “That’s…sweet. That you want that. I hope you get it someday.”

“Thank you.” It was unlikely an android would ever be given custody of children – it had taken a trial just to give him his own bodily autonomy, and even that, Data suspected, would not have as broad a reaction as he might have hoped – but it was still something to consider. “I take it you do not want children?”

She huffed a laugh, but it did not seem particularly humorous. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s not something I’ve ever really thought was in the cards for me, so I didn’t really think about it. I don’t…I kind of hate the idea of getting knocked up, but kids themselves? I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It is not something we need to discuss now.”

“No, it’s not,” Tasha agreed. She signaled the bartender back over, then leaned forward. “But Data? Even if Sarjenka doesn’t consciously remember you, I’m sure she’s grateful. It was clear you meant a lot to her too.”

Data looked back towards the window. The stars were still streaking, still carrying them farther and farther away. He would like to think so too. It was unfortunate that he would never truly know.

2)

She looked like him. It wasn’t something Data had considered when Lal was working her way through the choices he had programmed for her, narrowing them down until she picked the one best suited, and it was interesting, Data thought, given his own complex experiences with gender, that an android with a direct copy of his neural pathways chose to be female-aligned. But when Deanna pointed it out, it was unmistakable: Lal did bear some resemblance to Data. She had his nose, approximately, and there were marked similarities to her hair and cheekbones. Her eyes, striking blue, reminded him of holophotos of Doctor Noonien Soong. He did not think he had influenced Lal in her decision, but he could not help but wonder.

When he had first returned from the cybernetics conference with her partially-formed positronic net in tow, he had asked Tasha, privately, if this course of action was acceptable to her. He had not been concerned as a Starfleet officer – he was well within parameters as a scientist, an officer, and a parent – but Tasha was his partner, and she had seemed uncertain at the idea of having a child with him. He did not wish to pressure her, and had been willing to shelve this project if she was truly uncomfortable with it, but Tasha had shaken her head. “This is important to you,” she’d told him. “I’m not sure how much help I can be with an android, but I’m here to support you. Whatever happens.”

She’d kept the secret of his work as he’d constructed Lal, and part of Data had been surprised that, as chief of security, she hadn’t gone to the captain. But Tasha had pointed out that Data was giving her full access to the android, that it was based off Data’s own construction and Tasha knew how to guard the ship from any potential threat there. And it wasn’t like anyone else had to go to the captain to get permission to have kids.

When Lal’s construction was nearly complete, Data had asked Tasha how she wanted to be introduced. “I am Lal’s father,” he told her, “but I do not need to tell them you are their mother if you do not wish it.”

“Are you going to tell them we’re together?”

“That was my intention.”

Tasha chewed on her lip, clearly thinking hard. “I don’t think I’m ready to be called Mom,” she admitted. She glanced towards Data, uncertain. “Is that alright?”

“It is. I understand.”

“I still want to be involved.”

“Of course.”

And Lal had taken to Tasha easily. She had questioned Data’s relationship with a human – why pursue one if he could not feel? – and Data had explained to her the ways that he experienced things akin to emotion, that allowed him to form a variety of relationship types. Lal had accepted the answer as logical. She had asked if it was appropriate to call Tasha ‘Mother’ as she called Data ‘Father,’ and had seemed unperturbed when the answer was no. And Tasha…the look of wonder in Tasha’s eyes when Lal had awoken, the clear affection when the android had shown off her new gender presentation to her human parent, sent mirror sensations of affection through Data’s processing systems. For all that Tasha had been uncertain about Lal’s existence, once Lal was in front of her, she couldn’t seem to keep away. She still seemed uncertain, but as she admitted to Data, it was of herself, not Lal. Lal was precious, so full of wonder, so eager to learn about the world around her – so very like her father, Tasha had said with a smile – and what was there for a human with no experience with children to teach her?

The answer had been ‘plenty.’ Lal mimicked Tasha’s gestures, the little nervous ticks she had. She often asked for Tasha to tell her stories of growing up human, and Data had listened at the doorway more than once to Tasha’s soft-spoken, carefully worded tales about being a child herself, weeding out the bits that were too sensitive to talk about, either for herself or for a child. She helped Lal with her motor skills, her coordination, teaching her aikido moves, patient when Lal gripped too tight, showing her the safe amount of pressure to touch. Tasha might have worried about raising an android child, but Data watched them together, and felt nothing but pride for his family.

The thought of having her taken away had been devastating not only to him. When he’d relayed Admiral Haftel’s communication with Captain Picard, Tasha’s eyes had gone wide, and her breath had gone shaky before she had regained control. “They can’t take her away,” she said. “You’re her father. You have rights. We’re…we’re her family.”

They hadn’t told Lal. She was growing more and more by the day, her social skills expanding, eager to demonstrate affection. When she held Data’s hand, something in his chest had tightened, and he had been unable to activate his speech programs. He could only correct her grip, holding her back.

He loved her. He had never thought of Lal as simply an experiment, an android who could continue his legacy if he was successful. That was part of it, certainly, but Data had always been acutely aware that this was his child, a new life he was guiding, nurturing. Data could not be certain that he could feel, but if he could love Tasha in his own way, then he could love his daughter.

Tasha slipped into his lab in those final moments, when there was nothing left to be done. She watched, stepping forward only when Data met her gaze, giving her the smallest nod. He watched her slip her hand into Lal’s, squeezing tight. “I’m here, sweetheart,” she said softly.

“Father says it is time to say goodbye.” Lal’s eyes were glassy. She didn’t have tear ducts, but if she did, Data suspected her cheeks would be wet. Tasha nodded, swallowing thickly.

She glanced towards Data, and then back at Lal, tucking her hair back a little. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. We love you.”

“I…feel.”

“What do you feel, Lal?” Data asked gently.

“I love you, Father.” She looked to Tasha. “I am…not allowed to call you Mother. But you have been this to me. Thank you.”

Tasha’s breath shuddered. She sniffed, blinking swiftly as her eyes wet. “It’s okay,” she choked out. “You can call me that, sweetheart. Just this once.”

“Then I love you, Mother.” Lal’s eyes went unfocused. She was gone. Tasha stifled a sob, and Data stepped back, reaching around to touch Tasha’s shoulder gently, his partner collapsing into his side, her face tucked against him, as if her whole body was suddenly too heavy to support herself. Data stared at his daughter, the android who should have outlived him, who had lived for such a short time. He had been right about being a parent. Nothing in his life had felt as fulfilling as the days that Lal had been in it.

He would download her memories into his own positronic brain. He would remember her, celebrate every second of her life. And maybe, someday, he’d be ready to try again.

He didn’t know if it was a lack of imagination, or something very different, but Data couldn’t picture having another android child. He didn’t know if Tasha could either.

3)

Data watched Timothy surveying his quarters, some of the sharpness of his neck movements mellowing out in favor of examining the space. “This is kind of nice. Why do you have some much stuff here?”

“These objects all hold significance to me,” Data explained. “The deerstalker and coat, for example, I use on the holodeck. And I have dedicated many hours to my study of the violin.”

Timothy ran his fingers over the instrument, then cocked his head as he caught sight of Data’s easel. He wandered over to it. “This is good.”

“Thank you. I am currently studying the works of a variety of artists dedicated to ‘realism’ in their work, with a particular emphasis on nature scenes.” It was a little unusual, Data thought, to be this far into his quarters without tripping over Spot. Usually, the cat would be only too eager to wind her way around his ankles at this juncture, begging for attention. But, given Spot’s tendency to react aggressively to newcomers, Data had given her to Tasha for the time being, to keep in her quarters. Timothy didn’t need a temperamental cat interfering with his already delicate emotional state.

The faux-android looked back to Data. “I didn’t know androids could paint. Did you do the stuff on the walls too?”

Data glanced at the chalkings. He and Tasha had redone them recently. “Yes,” he said simply. “It is a style consistent with a ritual practiced on my…friend’s home planet.”

“Hmm.” If Timothy had noticed Data’s hesitation, it didn’t register. Deanna had suggested tactfully that it might be best to avoid mentioning that Data was in a romantic relationship for the time being. Timothy’s android persona hinged on the lack of emotions as a coping mechanism. It could have upset him further, having to contemplate the fact that Data still felt to some degree.

Data cocked his head, considering the boy. The memory of Lal still sat at the back of his head, the attention she’d needed. This wasn’t the same – Timothy was much more developed than Lal in many ways – but the principles were fundamentally similar. Carefully, Data suggested, “Timothy…would you like to paint with me?”

At the affirmative, Data pulled his easel from the corner, then set up a matching one for Timothy. As the boy dabbed paint onto his palette, he asked, “So, as androids, why do we paint?”

Data painted because artistic expression was extremely human. Many humanoid cultures emphasized the importance of art as a way to convey inner thoughts and feelings. There was something pleasing about creativity that satisfied Data, that gave him hope that he would be able to move beyond simply mimicking and reach true creation. None of those answers were appropriate, however.

He returned it with a question instead. “Why do you enjoy making models with blocks?”

Timothy went to shrug, then caught himself, and cocked his head. Data wondered if he really used that gesture quite so often. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s…it is satisfactory. You get to make something.”

“The same is true of painting.”

Timothy nodded, like that made sense to him. Data observed as he dumped a healthy amount of red onto his pallet, followed by black. He poured a conservative amount of neutral tones for himself – blue, brown, green – and let them lapse into silence.

“Poor kid,” Tasha said softly when Data had a moment to himself, walking back from their briefing. “He’s lost everything.”

Data didn’t ask if Tasha empathized. She’d lost a great deal, parents included, when she’d been even younger than Timothy was. “He has some relatives on Earth,” he told her. “An aunt and uncle who are willing to take him in when his healing process progresses.”

“Probably best not to separate him from you yet,” Tasha agreed. She smiled at him, wrapping her arms around his. “He looks a great deal like you in that sweater, you know. A perfect little mini-Data.”

“I keep being reminded of my experience with Lal,” Data admitted. “Timothy is very different, but he still needs guidance. However, unlike with an actual android child, I find myself…concerned that I may be hampering Timothy’s ability to express himself emotionally the way he requires.”

Tasha gave him a squeeze. “I’m sure you’re doing fine. Deanna said this is what he needs, right?”

“That is true.” But it didn’t make Data feel any better about it. It was something of a relief when Deanna recommended nudging Timothy gently back towards his humanity, and not only for Timothy’s sake. It had been difficult for Data, coming to terms with the fact that he might experience emotions. Having to repress that aspect of himself had been…distressing. In Ten Forward, he chose his words carefully when describing the drinks, picking ones he might not have generally used, but which overemphasized his mechanical nature. It prompted the correct response, Timothy’s initial confusion and then almost disappointment.

He could see Tasha across the room, working on a stack of PADDs at a table. She smiled at him when he caught her eye, giving a little wave. Part of Data wanted to tell Timothy that, even as an android, there were some things you could feel. That love was not exclusive to humans, that Data would not have given up anything to be with Tasha as anything other than what he was. But that would likely just confuse the boy. It was too easy to see things in black and white. Humans had emotions. Androids didn’t. Making halfway concessions could just deepen Timothy’s repression. And Data would rather lose another android child, especially one that had never belonged to him in the first place, than hurt the human boy like that. It wouldn’t have been right.

The first thing Tasha asked him, after they’d left the black cluster and Timothy had been settled at a nearby starbase to wait for his relatives to pick him up, was, “How are you feeling?”

She stood in the doorway to his quarters, holding Spot. The cat purred contentedly in her arms, unbothered by being carried around. Data took her from Tasha, stroking her fur, and gestured for his partner to take a seat. “I am alright,” he told her.

Tasha leaned back on his sofa, crossing her arms. “Are you sure? You’ve been a little off lately.”

“It has been…a difficult experience.” Data sat down next to her, and Tasha tucked her knees up onto the sofa, bracing an arm against the backrest, her chin propped against it. “I am pleased I was able to help Timothy cope with his loss, but I do not know that I would wish to do it again.”

Tasha frowned. “Why not?”

“It was…different, with Lal. Parenting her with you…I did not feel like I had to repress aspects of myself. I could acknowledge the complexity of the ways I experience the world, the ways I experience emotion. With Timothy, I could not do that.”

Tasha’s expression softened. “That’s understandable. For what it’s worth, I think you did a good job with him. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more involved.”

“Your presence would likely have confused him.”

“Maybe,” Tasha said. “But it would have made you feel better, I’ll bet.” She reached over, scratching Spot behind the ears until the cat rumbled happily. “I…I know talking about kids has been something we’ve kind of skirted around in the past, but with you…I think that’s something I’d like to do. Someday.”

“I am reluctant to construct another android,” Data admitted.

“Human, then,” Tasha said. Data looked at her, and she shrugged. “I know for a fact there’s a lot of human kids out there looking for a home. I’m not…I won’t say I’m ready for something like that _now_. But when we’re ready. It’s pretty clear by now that you’re good with children. And I’d like that. For us. Someday.”

For that, Data kissed her, and he felt her smile against his lips. She carded her fingers through his hair, and whispered, “And I promise, when it does happen, you won’t have to be anything other than yourself.”

4)

There was something wrong with him, Jayden thought. There must have been. Talur’s steadfast certainty that he was from the mountains, an iceman born amongst the snow, seemed increasingly farfetched to him, even without his memories. Perhaps it could explain the unusual pallor to his skin, the strange color of his eyes, and his too-slow heartbeat. It might even account for his strength. But Jayden did not see how it could account for the speed of his mind, how fast it flitted from thought to thought, at an almost overwhelming rate. It did not account for his strange thoughts, how precisely he could recount information – what information he could remember after his walk from the mountains, anyway – or his certainty of the sciences that so contradicted Talur’s understanding. It did not explain why, when Jayden thought of the concept of home, he did not look towards the mountains, but towards the stars.

In the meantime, Garvin had given him a home. He had welcomed Jayden into his house, had guided him through their way of life. Gia seemed particularly enamored with him; the young girl had been the one to invite him to her lessons, and she liked to trail after Jayden, asking him questions about himself, as if that might jog his memory. Jayden had to admit, he appreciated her. She seemed listless, particularly when her mother was referenced. It was good she had a distraction when her father was unavailable to give her attention, and Jayden was more than willing to provide it. It seemed he was good with children.

When Garvin collapsed, Jayden couldn’t help but wonder if, somehow, it was his fault. He couldn’t see how, but the man had shown no signs of being ill before Jayden had arrived. But speculation meant nothing. Speculation would not cure him. And after he had so graciously invited Jayden into his house, it was the least Jayden could do.

When the villagers cornered him in the town square, it took him a moment longer than he would have likely to recognize hostility. It was natural, he supposed, for them to draw the same conclusion he had. As he led Gia away, she asked, “Why do they hate you? They don’t even know you!”

“They are frightened,” Jayden told her. “I am an unknown.” He hesitated, and then said, “Promise me, Gia, if they attempt to come after me again, you will not get involved.”

“But-“ She staggered a little, raising a hand to her forehead. She was flushed, Jayden realized. He dropped his box of equipment, moving into a crouch to better examine her.

“You are beginning to show signs of the illness,” he told her. “We must get you home.”

When he tucked her into bed, she was shivering, in spite of the burning in her skin. She caught his hand weakly. “Jayden? Are you going to leave us?”

“No,” he promised. “I will be here. I will find a cure.” They were his responsibility now, and Jayden would not let any further harm befall them.

As his work progressed, Jayden couldn’t help but feel that this seemed only right, only natural. The science was familiar to him, coming naturally. It abated the fear in his chest, the worry at the signs that Garvin and Gia were growing worse, that others were getting sick too.

Gia assisted him as best she could while he worked. He had attempted first to keep her in bed, but the girl would not be deterred, and finally Jayden had realized that the best thing he could do for her was to let her stay. She mostly sat on her chair near his workstation, watching him through half-lidded eyes, slumped with exhaustion, but every so often she would ask him questions about what he was doing.

Once, she asked, “What happens if Father and I die? Where will you go?”

“You are not going to die,” Jayden told her. “I will not rest until I find a cure.” He hadn’t; strangely, he had felt no compulsion for sleep, but he could not complain when it gave him more time to work.

“First Mother, now Father, then me,” Gia mumbled. “All of us, just gone.” Her eyes closed, and panic stabbed through Jayden.

Levelly, not wanting to incite further distress, he said, “Your family will survive. I promise.”

“You’re family now too, Jayden,” Gia told him softly. “Father said that he wants you to stay.”

“I will,” Jayden told her.

Her voice was growing faint, but Jayden hoped it was simply because it was late. She would need to sleep soon. “Jayden?” she asked.

“Yes, Gia?”

“Do you think you have any other family out there?”

Jayden hesitated. His gaze went automatically to the window. To the sky. “I do not know,” he admitted. “It is possible. I cannot imagine there was no one I was close to, even if they were not a direct relation. I may even have a partner. We could have children.” The thought appealed to him. Perhaps they looked like him. Perhaps they missed their father.

Gia slumped farther against the chair, leaning heavily on it. “I bet your children love you very much,” she mumbled. “You’d be good with them.”

Jayden stood, lifting the girl carefully from the chair, and carrying her upstairs. She felt tiny, light as a feather in his arms. He tucked her back into bed, brushing hair from her sweat-damp forehead, careful of the lesions starting to bloom on her skin. She shifted uneasily against the blankets, and Jayden stayed seated, stroking her hair until she settled, falling into fitful sleep. Then he went back downstairs. He was very close to explaining the cause, he thought. Something to do with the metal fragments he had brought with him. Which meant, in a way, he was the cause. And that meant it was his responsibility to find the cure.

He thought about what Gia had said, her question about his family. It surprised him to realize that he had begun to think of them as family too. Gia was not his daughter by any stretch of the imagination, but he cared for her almost as one. Which was why he could not let her true father succumb to something he had wrought.

As it turned out, he was right about something else. There was something wrong with him. He was some manner of creature. But he could not think of himself as a monster. There was true pain in his chest when Gia stared at him, frightened, and it did not ease when she stepped aside to let him work. He felt her eyes on him as he worked with the compounds he had constructed, and tucked her in in the sitting room when she fell asleep. That did not feel like the act of a monster. It did not feel like the feelings of a monster. He truly cared for the girl, and for her father. They deserved to be safe and healthy again. They deserved better than the pain he had caused. He finished his work.

When Data woke up in sickbay, he had no recollection of Barkon IV beyond his attempt to retrieve the probe. Tasha was holding his hand, he realized, and he flexed his fingers in hers, a strange sensation settling in his chest as he looked at her. She smiled back, and Data identified the feeling. This was his family. This was where he belonged.

5)

His name was Jarik. He was approximately seven years, four months, and eight days old. He was the son of Lieutenant Commander T’Sara, of the Engineering division, and her bondmate Lieutenant Asais (Sciences). They had an impressive service record, but they had only been on board the _Enterprise_ for seven days, two hours, and thirteen minutes. And that was the tragedy.

It was nobody’s fault. Missions went wrong sometimes. You did everything you could. But somehow, that never made it easier to stomach. Data would be lying to say that every loss impacted him deeply, but that did not mean he did not feel it at all.

“Someone needs to stay with him,” Riker had said softly. “At least until we can find out if he has any family left.”

“I will search the records,” Data told him. “As for placing the boy-“

“We can look after him,” Tasha cut in. They both turned to look at her, and she shrugged. “Worf can keep an eye on things here for me. I’ve been looking for reasons to give him more to do anyway. And Data and I are pretty good with kids.”

Riker nodded. “Then that’s settled.” Data gave her a questioning look at the commander turned away, but Tasha just gave him a reassuring smile.

She met him later at the door of Jarik’s quarters. They were sparse, their occupants unable to find the time to unpack their family belongings in the short time they’d been there. Tasha looked tired, and she kept her voice low. “He’s meditating now.”

“Is he alright?”

Tasha shrugged. “His parents are dead, and Vulcan or no, he still feels that. He’s in a lot of pain. I had Doctor Selar take a look at him, and she’s managed to stabilize the broken family bonds, but it’s going to take time.” She sighed. “He’s…been a bit combative. Normally, a Vulcan his age would have completed the kahs-wan ritual, making him an adult in his culture. But, with his parents in Starfleet…” She trailed off, looking helpless. “He says that it’s illogical to assign adults to watch him when he isn’t a child, and that he’s only permitting it because he hasn’t completed any of the official rights, but I think he’s scared. He doesn’t have a betrothal bond, hasn’t gone through any of the major Vulcan cultural rituals…I think he’s worried about what happens if he has to go back there.”

“That is a valid concern,” Data allowed. He glanced towards the open doorway, into one of the adjoining rooms of the family quarters. He could see flickers of light, like a candle had been lit, presumably for meditation purposes. “I am still waiting for the computer to retrieve the data on Jarik’s family. The information was not available in the library, so I had to send a request.”

Tasha sank onto the sofa, tucking her crossed legs up under her. She dropped her chin onto her hands. “I just feel useless right now. Maybe one of the _Enterprise’s_ Vulcan officers should be looking after him. They’d know better, right?”

“If you would like, I can speak to Commander Riker about facilitating the exchange,” Data offered. “Although I am not certain any of the other officers would be any better a fit. Few are of an age to be looking after a child.” He sat beside her. “I am certain you have done all you can.”

Tasha leaned into him, and Data wrapped his arm around her, rubbing her shoulder gently. Tasha sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it again.”

Data cocked his head. “About what?”

“Kids. It’s been…it’s been a bit since we talked about them.”

“Approximately two years, three months-“

“Yeah.” Tasha swallowed hard, and Data studied her face. At this angle, he couldn’t see much of it. “The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I thought, maybe, that I felt ready for it. But then this…” She closed her eyes. “Maybe I’m not as ready as I thought I was.”

“Jarik is a Vulcan child,” Data told her, “and he has just been through a great tragedy. I would not expect you to be fully prepared for that, and you appear to have been handling the situation with great sensitivity.” He hesitated. “I did not know you were considering having children again. I have not given it particular thought recently.”

“But you still want them, right?”

“That is true.” He did. Data expected that would always be something he desired. And despite him leaving the subject to rest, unwilling to pressure Tasha on that front, she appeared to have been warming up to the idea over the years. Still, if she changed her mind, Data thought he could accept that.

Tasha pulled away, leaning back against the backrest of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I want them too,” she said. “Human kids, I think. I know what another android would mean to you.”

Data’s throat tightened. His hands curled into light fists, remembering the touch of Lal’s fingers, holding his. “I believe human would be preferable,” he agreed. “Although…”

“What?”

“I am not certain I would make an adequate parent for a human child,” he admitted. “I could severely impact their emotional development.”

Tasha scoffed. “Data, baby, you feel things. Do we really have to go over this again?”

“I am not denying that I feel,” Data told her. “But it is markedly different from how humans experience emotion. I am not certain it is enough.”

She stared at him. Data blinked back, impassive. “You’re thinking about the emotion chip,” she said.

“It would seem to be a reasonable step.”

“Maybe.” Tasha collapsed back again, chin tilting back to the ceiling. Her eyes looked very far away. “We don’t have to decide right this second. We have time.”

“We do,” Data agreed. He looked up at Jarik appeared in the doorway. The boy appeared cautious, guarded. There was more clear emotion on the surface than Data usually saw from Vulcans, but that was to be expected. He cocked his head. “Hello, Jarik. Do you require anything?”

Jarik hesitated. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, and took a step farther into the room. “Lieutenant Yar said that, after my meditation, she would take me to arboretum. There is a new breed of lhm’ta they are attempting to cultivate there.” He hesitated. “Unless you are busy?”

Tasha was already on her feet, smiling at the boy. “A promise is a promise. We can go now, if you’d like.”

“That would be acceptable.”

Tasha shot Data a smile. “I’ve got this,” she told him. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He nodded, and she dropped a brief kiss to his cheek before guiding the boy out, listening to Jarik’s slowly building chatter about the uses of the plant they were going to see, and the tea ceremonies he’d read about it being used for. She did in fact seem to ‘have this,’ Data thought. Her fears appeared unfounded.

His, on the other hand, he wasn’t so sure of. Children learned by example. And no matter what Data felt, if he could not express it for his children, he could not be certain it would not damage them irreparably. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

He had been thinking about the emotion chip more and more recently. It was unlikely to be an easy solution. He would undoubtedly have to learn to adjust to the effects of the chip. But perhaps it could assist him in his journey.

He would speak with Tasha about it more tonight. In the meantime, she seemed to have things well in hand.

+1)

“This is taking _forever_ ,” Tatum groaned. The six-year-old flopped dramatically back onto the sofa, kicking her feet at the chair legs irritably. “I wanna go home.”

“Soon,” Data promised her. It prompted another groan from Tatum, who slid to the floor, arms crossed, still pouting for all of five seconds before she was up again, poking at the water sculpture by the doorway. Data suppressed a smile, exchanging a glance with Tasha. There was equal mirth in her eyes.

They had adopted Tatum a year ago, a prickly five-year-old who’d been left behind in a colony raid by the Orion Syndicate. She’d had no other family to take her in, and while it hadn’t been easy to convince the board that Data and Tasha would be a good fit for children, decorated heroes from the Federation’s flagship weren’t easy to turn down, either. Data couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might have been the interviews which changed their minds. Tatum had taken to them almost instantly, constantly fidgety, poking Data’s legs and asking him blunt questions about his skin and eye color, and she’d been fascinated when he’d shown her the circuitry beneath his skin. She’d been absolutely thrilled to find out that Tasha was a security officer in Starfleet, insisting that Tasha show her the moves she knew, showing off her own – admittedly unrefined, given that she was five and had no formal fight training – flying kicks and hand chops. They’d been a good match, and Tatum adored living on a starship. She had difficulty sitting still, but Tasha was more than a match for chasing after her, and already aikido training was showing a world of difference in the young girl’s discipline.

She still got quiet at times, sometimes curling up on her bed in their family quarters for hours without saying a word. Data would sit with her then, equally silent, until she cuddled up against his side, burying her face in his chest while he stroked her hair. Deanna had said there wasn’t much they could do for her. She had counseling sessions with a child counselor to help her come to terms with her loss, and the meetings were growing more infrequent, but Data suspected Tatum would always miss her birth parents. She loved him though, and she loved Tasha, and that was more than enough.

They hadn’t quite intended to do it again, definitely not so soon. But Tatum had settled in well, and when Tasha came to Data and asked, in hesitant tones, if he was interested in having two more, he’d been initially confused, but more than willing. 

The confusion had abated with an explanation. Tasha kept tabs on her homeworld. Officially, Turkana IV wasn’t part of the Federation, but there were unaligned trade ships that went there, and as more reports came in that the political climate was settling – not good by any means, but no longer quite so hostile – Starfleet had tentatively sent out representatives, and been met with relatively lukewarm results. The Turkanians were still skeptical of Earth, but they were willing to talk.

Which had led to the orphans. There were more than a few of them on a planet so devastated, and more than a few adults who had tasked themselves with guarding those they found abandoned. And some of those adults had approached Starfleet, concerned about what it would mean for children to grow up as they had, hopeful that they could be relocated to safety. Two of those were Lyra and Aletris. They had been found together, and they were impossible to separate. The Starfleet doctors who had checked them over had confirmed that they were twins, about three years old, albeit badly malnourished. Tasha had been keeping track of the situation. She had seen the pictures. And she had fallen in love.

They’d asked Tatum if she would mind having a brother and sister. She’d been skeptical at first, but when Tasha had promised that they would love her just as much even with new kids in the house, and once she’d shown Tatum the pictures, Tatum had warmed up to the idea. She’d been particularly inquisitive of where the babies would be coming from, and when Tasha had told her a _highly_ censored explanation of the situation on Turkana – she’d consulted with Data about it, but she hadn’t wanted to lie, because Tatum was six and intelligent and even though Lyra and Aletris were young enough to have no conscious memory of Turkana, that was still a situation which had affected them deeply, and Tatum would undoubtedly have more questions if they didn’t give it to her honestly – Tatum had been horrified, and appointed herself unilaterally as the twins’ protectors.

Which was why they were waiting at Starbase Eleven right now. They’d taken a shuttle from the _Enterprise,_ and they’d rendezvous with them in just a few days, but this was technically shore leave. They’d been able to see the twins over commlinks before, but this would be the first time they saw them in person. The anticipation had Data’s chest tight, and Tasha squeezed his hand when his breathing algorithms cut off, reminding him to relax.

They all looked up when a woman in civilian clothes stepped in, smiling warmly at them. “Commander. Lieutenant. It’s good to see you.” She bent a little, nudging forward the two toddlers staring out from behind her legs. They skidded forward a few steps, theirs hands clinging together, and Tatum bounced to her feet in excitement.

“Yes!” she crowed, scrambling over to hug them. “Hi! We’re taking you home!”

“Tatum,” Tasha admonished gently. “Gentle. You’ll frighten them.”

Tatum blinked, then took a step back. Aletris’s eyes were wide, and he was trembling a little, but Lyra appeared nonplussed, and when she looked at Data, she cocked her head, a mirror of the gesture she’d seen on the commlink. She looked between them, at where Data and Tasha were sitting, then at Tatum, who was bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet. She tugged on Aletris’s hand, and her brother followed after as she toddled over to Data, staring up at him. Aletris squeaked when she let go in favor of holding her arms up, and Data scooped her into his lap, fighting the unexpected tears pricking at his eyes.

“Hello,” he said softly. “I am your father.”

“Yes,” Lyra said solemnly. She put her hand on Data’s cheek. “Go home?”

“That’s right,” Tasha told her. “You’re coming home with us.”

Aletris squeaked again as Tatum whooped, squeezing her new brother into a tight hug from behind. “We’re gonna be a family!”

Tasha laughed, carefully separating the two kids so Aletris could breathe, sucking in a sharp, soft breath when Aletris buried his face against her leg, clinging to her. She stroked his hair and met Data’s eyes. “That’s right, sweetheart. We’re going to be a family.”

They already were, Data thought. In all the ways that mattered, they already were.


End file.
